Mysterious Ways or
by wih
Summary: Contract Sequel, set after House's release. HouseWilson friendship. House is slowly recovering with the help of... well, you have to read the rest for yourself. :
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is yet another sequel to the "The Contract" by diysheep. If you haven't as yet read any of the Contract-stories, I recommend you do that before starting on this one, because otherwise you won't really know what's going on.

This story is based on diysheeps short sequel about House's dad coming to visit during House's recovery. It can be found on her LJ (sorry can't post links) under the section: "The Contract and other angsty stories". She mentions a toy there, called 'Mr. Vicodin'. This is my story of how he came into being and his role in House's recovery.

Author: wihluta Summary: Contract-sequel in which House finds Mr. Vicodin and gets betterer and betterer.  
Beta: Many, Many thanks to t'eyla and diysheep for the beta. (hands each a box of chocolates.) Any mistakes left are entirely my fault.

**Mysterious Ways **or** How House Found Mr. Vicodin And They Lived Happily Ever After**

Chapter 1.

„I really don't know what to do anymore..." Wilson said tiredly. „I mean, I can't be around him twenty-four seven. I need to work and sometimes... well, sometimes I just need a break."

Dr. Simpson nodded sympathetically. „That's alright, Dr. Wilson. It's perfectly normal to feel this way. There's no reason for you to feel guilty. Considering what you're doing for him – not everybody would have the strength to do it."

Wilson shrugged. „I owe it to him. And I want to take care of him. Really, he's my friend and... I'm the only one he has left..." He broke off and shook his head. „It's just so hard sometimes. When he gets scared by some unexpected noise or movement... I mean, I never know when's the next time he freaks out. And it's worse when I'm not with him. I always worry about him. That he might need me and I'm not there to calm him down."

Simpson nodded again. „But like you said, you can't be there all the time. And I thought you hired this guy – Clarence – to take care of him during the day."

„Yeah, Clarence is a god-send, but sometimes he's not enough. House won't let Clarence touch him and the only thing that really calms him down is when he can hold onto me." Wilson felt a bit embarrassed at the confession.

Simpson seemed to notice how uncomfortable Wilson felt about what he'd just shared. „That's a good sign. That he holds on to you, I mean." he reassured Wilson. „It means that he recognizes you, that he's still somewhere inside." Wilson's face lit up a little at that. There was a part of him that still hoped House would one day be alright again. Dr. Simpson went on. „Have you ever thought of a substitute? Something that represents you or some sort of safety for Dr. House, while you're away?"

Wilson was confused. „Like what?"

Simpson shrugged. Obviously the idea had just come to him. He tried to explain. „You know how small children sometimes have a 'security blanket', something they take with them whenever they are away from home. That's what I've been thinking. Maybe you can find something that represents 'safety' to Dr. House. And while you're away he can hold on to it."

Wilson didn't answer immediately. He was thinking about it. The idea didn't sound too bad. There was only one problem: What could make House feel safe and protected? He had no idea.

When he put the problem before Simpson, he suggested that they could try out different things. A blanket, a toy or maybe a item of clothes. It didn't really matter as long as it served its purpose.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

„House... look what I got for you." Wilson was talking quietly, willing House to understand him. House was sitting in his favourite corner, his fingers fiddling with the cushions, his face blank, eyes staring into space. Seeing his once brilliant friend so empty and broken always made Wilson want to scream. He shoved the thoughts away.

House was quite calm at the moment and so Wilson had decided to try out Simpson's idea. He was holding a small blue blanket, the kind they made for babies, and was showing it to House. On one side the picture of a smiling, pipe-smoking moon was printed on it.

„It's a blanket. I got it for you, in case you want something to hold onto when I'm away." House showed no interest whatsoever in what Wilson was saying. He completely ignored the blanket.

Wilson sighed. „I'm just going to leave it here for you." He put the blanket it front of House and slowly stood up. „I'm going to make dinner, do you want anything special?" He knew it was a stupid question. House wouldn't answer him, he never spoke now, but Wilson asked him the same question every night before he prepared dinner in the vain hope that someday, maybe House would look up and say 'I want pancakes'.

House continued to ignore him and Wilson let out another sigh. He seemed to sigh a lot lately. He went into the kitchen, leaving House to his thoughts.

Wilson tried to get House interested in the blanket over the next couple of days, but he didn't have any luck. House simple ignored the damn thing. Wilson finally took the blanket away. He stared at it for a minute before throwing it out. What had he been thinking anyway, House would never take to a childish thing like that.

He remembered Blythe telling him years ago, when things had still been alright, that House used to like the ugliest toys as a child. Give him a cute teddy-bear and he'd rip its head off in no time, but present him with something that resembled a cross between Freddy Kruger and a Klingon Targ and he'd hold onto it like a prized possession.

He thought about calling House's dad to ask him if there were any old toys of House's around, but he quickly dropped the idea. He remembered the last time he'd seen John and their conversation after John House had seen his son in his current state.

„_So, he's like what, some retarded idiot now?" _

„_No, it's just... you have to understand... he's basically been through hell and back again. And now that it's over, it's like he's drawn back into himself. He's blocked out everything around him. But he can come back any day..."_

„_Pah, who do you think you're kidding? I mean, look at him, he's only one step from drooling..."_

„_Mr. House, your son is ill. He's suffered more than any person should ever have to suffer and I don't care how long it takes him to recover. I'll be there for him."_

„_Well, suit yourself. I'm not gonna burden myself with him. If you have nothing better to do... please waste your time!"_

No. There was no way John House would understand a request like this. And thinking about it Wilson was pretty sure there would be no toys left. John had probably burnt them the moment House turned six.

Over the next days Wilson tried his luck with an old sweater of his, a toy Stitch from the Disney movie (it was the ugliest thing he could find) and even an action figure, but nothing seemed to hold House's interest long enough to be considered a 'security blanket'.

Finally Clarence, seeing how frustrated Wilson was, suggested they take House to a toy-store and let him chose for himself. Wilson was didn't like the idea. It probably wasn't a good idea to take House to a place full of people and noises. The incident in the shopping centre had taught him to be careful.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Wilson came home, shopping bags in each hand, he sensed immediately that something was wrong. When he'd left only two hours ago, House had been sitting on the sofa pulling threads out of the pillows while sucking on a red lollipop.

Now there was no House to be seen and no Clarence either. For a moment cold dread rushed through Wilson's body, before he heard gentle murmuring from the bedroom. He knew this could only mean one thing. He dropped the bags and headed for the source of the noise. When he entered his eyes lit on a familiar scene.

House was wedged into his corner, his arms wrapped around his legs, eyes shut tightly, shaking and sweating. Clarence was crouched on the floor in front of him, but not too close, talking soothingly and trying to get House to relax.

When Wilson entered, Clarence looked up and said apologetically, „I'm sorry Doc, I don't know what it was this time. I was in the kitchen making coffee, when he suddenly screamed and bolted into the bedroom. I've tried talking to him, but..."

„It's alright, Clarence, I'll take over." Wilson knelt down next to House and started talking quietly. „It's alright, buddy. Your safe now, I'm here." After a while House latched onto Wilson's shirt and Wilson put his arms around his friend, holding him tight. He wished he could do more, somehow reach through to House and make him understand that things were okay now, but all he could do was sit here and wait for the nightmare to pass.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day Wilson decided to take Clarence's advice and let House chose his own security 'blanket'. He told House about his plans while he dressed him and got him ready to go.

„... so, once we're there, you can look around and maybe you find something you like. It can be anything, you know. And when I'm away you just hold onto it and it will keep the nightmares away..."

House actually seemed to listen this time; at least he was gazing intently at Wilson while he talked. Wilson was never sure if House listened to or understood what was said to him, but he hoped that maybe something got through that wall inside House's head.

Wilson decided to go early in the morning,because he hoped that at this time the toy-store wouldn't be too crowded. He had been right; there were only half a dozen or so people in the shop when they entered.

House was on the leash again. Wilson had almost foregone it this time, but the memory of House bolting in the middle of the crowded shopping centre had made him reconsider. Even if House killed him for humiliating him once he was well again, Wilson wasn't going to risk another incident.

„Alright House, come on, let's see what we can find." Wilson took House's hand and started slowly walking along the aisles, giving House time to view the objects displayed on the shelves.

When House didn't show any signs of interest in anything, Wilson randomly grabbed a green and violet dragon and held it in front of House's face. „What about this one, eh? It looks ugly enough." House gazed at the toy for a moment before his eyes drifted off again.

Wilson sighed and put the dragon back. He hated that dull look in House's eyes. House's eyes used to be so expressive and now there was nothing.

„Mom, why's this man on a string?" Wilson heard a child's voice ask. He felt himself blushing as he turned around intending to explain the odd sight.

The mother beat him to it. „Just ignore it, sweetheart, some people are just strange. See those PSP's over there? Why don't you go and have a look."

Wilson's feelings changed from embarrassment to anger. How dare this woman call House strange? Well, he'd done it hundreds of times, but he was House's friend. This was just some stranger, she had no right to judge House! Before he could say anything, the woman rounded on him.

„What do you think you're doing, bringing someone like him here? I mean, there are children here, for God's sake. They don't need to see that!"

„Excuse me?" Wilson stared at the woman unable to come up with an answer. This was just too much.

„Oh don't pretend you didn't realize -" The woman would probably have gone on, but Wilson had found his voice again.

„Who the hell do you think you are? Me and my friend can go where ever we want to go. If you don't like to see disabled people maybe you should stay at home and have your stuff delivered. I'm afraid the world isn't the happy place you imagine it to be!" He was talking himself into a rage, all his anger and frustration pouring out of him.

He waved his arms angrily while he was talking himself into a rage. He was taking a breath when he heard someone yell. „Hey you! What do you think you're doing there?"

The moment he heard the yell, Wilson realized that House wasn't at his side anymore. He must have let go of the leash during his gesticulations. „Fuck!" he muttered, turning around frantically, searching for House. He sprinted down the aisles looking for the escapee. He found him at the end of the shop with his back pressed against the wall shrinking away from an angry looking security guard. People had gathered around the pair, watching the drama unfold.

Wilson reached the two of them, and as soon as he'd gotten the guards attention he tried to explain that House wasn't dangerous.

„He tried to steal a bag of candies!" the guard told him pompously, waving a bag of Green frogs.

„Oh... I'm sorry, he doesn't know that he can't just take anything he wants. I'll pay for them when we leave. No harm done, right?" He tried to smile convincingly while keeping an eye on House who was still pressed against the wall looking terrified and shaking.

„Right, so what is he some kind of retard?" The guard asked with a sneer.

„No! He's just... he's had a bad time and he's recovering..." Wilson broke off. There was no way he could explain House's situation to a half-witted idiot like this guy, even if he'd wanted to. So he just turned around and went to take care of House. He'd have to calm him down before they could leave. Maybe this whole thing hadn't been such a good idea after all.

„Hey, House." he said calmly, soothingly. „It's alright. It was just a misunderstanding. It's fine, really. I'm sorry I didn't look after you, but it's alright now. We can go home if you like."

„Is he okay? Is there something I can do to help?" a female voice asked. Wilson looked around. A girl in her late teens was standing nearby, looking concerned.

Wilson gave her a small, tired smile. „He'll be fine. He just gets scared easily. There's nothing you can do, but thanks anyway."

„It's no problem. I know this isn't easy. My little brother has Tourret's. Some people just don't get it." She smiled back at him.

Wilson quickly glanced at House to see if he was calming down and was surprised to see House's eyes fixed on the girl. For a moment he was confused as to what had caught House's attention.

Following House's gaze he saw that the girl was holding a small white toy with two dangly legs and no arms. It had a big V on one side and two large eyes above. It made the V look like a dopey smile. Wilson had to admit that the thing looked rather strange. House seemed transfixed by it.

„Uhm, Sorry..." Wilson gestured at the thing in the girls hand. „May I ask where you got this?"

The girl looked down and chuckled. „That? Oh, I'm afraid that's not _from_ anywhere. I mean, I made it myself. It was supposed to be a mascot for our football team, but they didn't like it." She held the thing up. „I can't blame them. Why are you asking?"

„Ah, it's just that he seems to like it... and we - well, we came here looking for something he could use as a... well, a security toy or something... and I thought maybe he'd like this thing..." Wilson trailed off, feeling rather stupid.

„That's so sweet! Here, why don't you give it to him and see if he likes it?" She held out the toy.

„Really?"

„Sure. I don't really need it anymore. The team shot me down an hour ago and sent me to find something - how did they put it - less ugly." She grinned at him.

Wilson took the toy and said with a grin of his own, „House loves ugly things."

The moment Wilson had closed his hand around the toy House's hand shot forward and grabbed it. Wilson let go and House immediately hugged the toy to his chest.

„Well, I guess that answers the question." the girl observed.

„Yeah, listen... could I buy this from you?"

„No way. I'm not gonna take any money from you. It didn't cost me anything. Keep it, it's a gift. And I hope your friend will get better soon!"

„Thanks! That's very nice of you. House, did you hear that? You can keep the thing. Would you like to thank the young lady?" House was busy examining his new toy. Wilson shrugged. „I guess that means no. Well, thank you very much."

„No problem. I gotta go now. Time to find a new mascot." She waved a goodbye and left, strolling down the aisle.

„Wow, I guess your in luck today, buddy." Wilson told House. House looked back at him, and Wilson thought he could almost detect a mischievous glint in House's eyes.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

„What's that he's holding there?" Cuddy asked Wilson the next morning when they met on their way to Wilson's office and House's day-room. Wilson glanced at House who was cradling the White Thing (as Wilson called it) in his left arm.

„Oh, that. We got it yesterday at a toy store." Wilson told Cuddy about the 'security blanket' idea and the encounter in the shop. When he'd finished Cuddy leaned forward to get a better look at the thing. House shot her an almost angry glance and hugged his newest possession closer to his chest.

„This almost looks like those drug rep thingies they always give away. You know, toys that look like pills and stuff. And is that a V on it?"

„Yeah... I guess it's got something to do with the team's name."

Cuddy looked strangely at Wilson and when he asked „What?" in a somewhat irritated tone of voice, she raised an eyebrow and said slowly. „It looks like a giant Vicodin."

Wilson stared at her, then he stared at the White Thing. He had to admit that Cuddy was kind of right. It did have almost the exact same shape as House's old pills. Why hadn't he realized it before? House probably had. Maybe that was why he'd taken such a sudden liking to it.

Wilson suddenly had an inspiration. „Well, I guess it's got a name then. Dr. Cuddy, meet Mr. Vicodin. Mr. Vicodin, Dr. Cuddy."

Cuddy snorted. „Your just as crazy as he is!" she said when she stalked off.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

„Hey House, Clarence. Ready to go?" Wilson was standing in the doorway to House's day-care room. House was sitting in the reclining chair looking at one of the magazines Clarence always got for him. He looked up when Wilson spoke, but didn't give any sign of recognition.

„Sure, Doc." Clarence said, smiling. „Let me just pack up his stuff and we can leave."

„How was the day?" Wilson asked as he always did.

„Fine. We had a good day today, didn't we, Doc House? We even went for a stroll in the park."

„That's good." Wilson relaxed. If House was calm and happy, maybe they would have a quiet night tonight. He could use more than only a couple hours of sleep for a change.

„The only thing is..." Clarence hesitated and Wilson tensed. „He... he ate the eyes of his new toy."

„What?" Wilson asked incredulously.

Clarence pointed to Mr. Vicodin who was lying in House lap. „That white thing... he somehow managed to pull the eyes out and then he ate them. I didn't call you, 'cause I thought it wouldn't do any harm. I mean he'll just... well you know... they'll pass through his system by themselves, won't they?"

Wilson suppressed a snort. „Yeah, It's okay. I don't think they will do any harm." He turned to House. „Come on you crazy eye-eater. Lets go home and have dinner. I'm starving."

He gently took House's hand and pulled him to his feet. House let go of the magazine and followed Wilson's coaxing. When he scrambled to his feet he grabbed Mr. Vicodin just in time before he fell to the floor. Pressing the toy to his chest he followed Wilson outside.

_I can feel them watching me. They are always watching me these days. I know there is a camera behind the air-vent. It is too high for me to reach, but I know anyway. I don't know why, I just know. _

_Sometimes I wonder what they do with all the tapes they have of me. If my torturer would sit in his office and watch them, maybe jerk off to them..._

_Don't think about it. Don't remember. Think of something nice. Wilson. Think of Wilson and those stupid conversations you used to have. _

_No. Don't think of Wilson. Thinking of Wilson is dangerous, because whenever you think about Wilson you worry. And you remember what they did to Cameron. If they knew you were thinking of Wilson, it might only make them think it would be a good idea to kill again..._

_Watching me. Always watching me._

_I can see their eyes in my head. Sometimes they're blue, sometimes they're brown. Hard eyes. Eyes that knew no mercy. Eyes that laugh when I suffer. _

_Always watching me. _

_I wish they would go away. Leave me alone for just one hour. Give me a break. But no, Greg House won't get a break. That's the contract. Anytime. Anywhere. Always. For ever. _

_And they're watching me. Always watching._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wilson was in the kitchen preparing dinner when he heard House shuffle into the room. He turned around to see what was up. House stopped close to him, close enough to touch him, but not touching: just looking. Wilson looked back and held his breath, silently willing House to tell him what he wanted.

After a while House held out his hand, the hand that was holding Mr. Vicodin. He was offering it to Wilson.

Wilson exhaled. "House, what is it? Don't you like it anymore?"

House looked down at his toy, and Wilson thought he looked a little sad. Wilson was confused. Ever since House had gotten hold of Mr. Vicodin he hadn't let him out of his hands for one second. Why was he trying to give him to Wilson now?

When House didn't pull his hand back Wilson slowly took the toy from House. "What do you want me to do?"

House reached out and started fingering one of the loose threads that had formerly held the eyes in place. Wilson understood.

"You want his eyes back? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you ate his eyes. There's no way he can have them back anytime soon."

House kept looking at him with this strangly empty, yet sad expression on his face. Wilson felt his heart twist. He sighed. "Well, I guess I can go and see if I find something we can use as eyes. Would you like that?"

He didn't expect an answer, so he quickly checked that nothing was burning on the stove and went into the living room. House followed him closely.

Wilson went in search for his box of sewing stuff. He knew he had some buttons in it, in case he lost one. He found the box on the top shelf of the bookcase and carried it over to the couch.

"Come on, House. Sit down. If you make me do this you can at least keep me company." He gently pulled on House's sleeve, and House sat down close to him, his eyes never leaving his toy.

Wilson went through the contents of the box and soon found a pair of big purple buttons he'd had no idea he had. He took them out and showed them to House. "What do you think? Are these okay?"

House reached out slowly and touched one of the buttons. Wilson took it as a yes. He threaded a needle and started sewing the buttons onto Mr. Vicodin. House was breathing over his hands, keeping a close eye on what was going on.

"There you go." Wilson said when he'd finished. House snatched his toy back and started pulling on the buttons. "No!" Wilson reached out and put a hand on House's fingers. "House. Leave them. If you eat those I won't fix it again!"

When he'd made sure that House wasn't about to add purple buttons to his dinner, Wilson went to finish cooking.

It seemed that House actually liked Mr. Vicodin's new eyes, because he didn't peel them off again.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx

"House, come on. You have to let go of Mr. Vicodin. He's made of cloth, he can't come into the shower with you." Wilson tried to pry the toy from House's hands, but House held onto it with a death grip.

They were in the bathroom. It was House's shower time. With Clarence's help Wilson had managed to get House out of his clothes, but he wouldn't let go of Mr. Vicodin. Wilson knew how much House hated being near water. And after seeing the tapes Wilson couldn't blame him.

It wasn't easy for Wilson to ignore all the scares on House's body, but after a while he'd gotten used to them. He had taught himself not look too closely. To be emotionally detached. The first time he'd seen his friend naked, though, he'd almost freaked. He had wanted to scream and run away and hit something and cry. The whole scale of what had been done to House had suddenly dawned on him. And he still couldn't understand it. How could anyone do this to another human being?

Wilson knew that the scars on House's body, the damage that was medically determinable, was only the tip of the iceberg. It was the scars that couldn't be seen, the memories, the mental pain, that had turned House into a walking shell. Wilson hoped that in time, those scars too would heal enough to allow House to come back. Until then, all he could do was take care of his friend.

_When they came into the apartment instead of taking me away, I knew they had come up with a new way of torture. The lawyer's false mocking smile makes me want to puke or punch his face. But I can't fight back. I'm not allowed to. _

"_Into the bathroom," the lawyer orders. I'm feeling nauseous. I'm trying not to shake with fear. _

_They drag a chair along with them, and once in the bathroom they make me sit down. They pull my arms back and tie my hands behind the back of the chair. One of the men opens the tap of the bathtub._

"_Happy diving, Greg!" the lawyer says when they drag the chair over to the full tub and tip it over. I manage to gasp a breath before my head is splashing into the water. It is icy. _

_I start counting the seconds, mainly to keep myself from panicking. _

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Ten._

_Twenty._

_Bubbles are starting to escaping from my nose. _

_Twenty-Five._

_Don't breathe! _

_Thirty-Five._

_It is a battle, lungs against brain. I know if given enough time the lungs will eventually win. _

_Fifty._

_They pull me back. Air! Breathe, quickly, before they tip you over again._

_Splash._

_One._

_Thirty. _

_My lungs are burning. _

_Fourty-Six._

_Why do I fight the urge to breathe? I can just open my mouth and breathe in water. It would hurt, but after the pain there would be peace. No more pain. Nothing. Everything would be over. _

_Fifty-Five._

_Except... I'm not allowed to die. _

_Sixty._

_Air again. Only seconds before the next splash. _

_One._

_Fourty-Two._

_Sixty-Seven._

_This time they're waiting too long. _

_Seventy-Two._

_The lungs win. _

_Seventy-Three. _

_The last thing I know is agony..._

_Then I wake again. Alone and in pain on the floor of the bathroom. On my chest is a note. _

_'Until Next Time.'_

When Wilson had tried to get House to go in the bathtub, House had thrown a tantrum. There was no way they'd get him to take a bath. Instead they made him shower. Wilson could tell that House didn't like the shower either, but at least he let Wilson wash him without freaking out.

When Wilson couldn't loosen House's grip on Mr. Vicodin he tried reasoning again. A part of Wilson's brain mocked him for doing it, but he willed those thoughts away. Maybe House did understand him. Maybe something did get through.

"Alright, buddy. Why don't you give me Mr. Vicodin for a moment? I'll wrap him in a plastic bag. That way he won't get wet and you can hold onto him."

Wilson showed House the clear plastic bag. It was one of the garbage bags they kept in the bathroom. House looked at the bag, then at Mr. Vicodin, and finally he looked up at Wilson. It was as if he was trying to gauge if Wilson was serious.

"I'm not going to take him away from you," Wilson promised.

After a few more minutes of coaxing Wilson was able to take Mr. Vicodin from House and put him in the bag. Having made sure that no water could get in, he handed him back to House.

"Okay, ready to shower now?" House didn't look very happy, but at least he let Wilson put him onto the shower seat and clean him without any resistance.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Hee."

Wilson's head snapped up from the magazine he had been reading. He stared at House, who was sitting on a pile of blankets and pillows in one corner of the living room. Wilson was pretty sure House had just made a sound that could almost be described as a snigger.

"House?" he ventured quietly after a few seconds.

House didn't make another sound, but looked up at him and Wilson thought he could detect the hint of a smile. Was he starting to imagine things? Wilson slowly got up from the sofa and went over to his friend.

House had somehow gotten hold of one of Wilson's ties and had stuffed the wide end with the cheese crackers Wilson had put next to him a while ago. He was now trying to secure the filled end with the other one so that the contents wouldn't fall out again.

"Oh, House!" Wilson said somewhere between annoyed and amused. What was it with House and Wilson's ties? "What did you do that for? You know you don't need to stash food. You can have some whenever you like." Wilson said the last part in a light voice, but his insides clenched at the thought of House having been systematically starved over the past years.

The first time he'd seen House again after all those years it had taken him a moment to recognize him. When they had led House into the room, still in chains Wilson had to look very closely to find any traces of his old friend in this ghost of a person. 'Concentration Camp physique' House had called it once before the catatonia.

He sometimes wondered how House had managed to survive all those years.

He knelt down and began unwrapping the tie. House watched him, but didn't stop him. Wilson made sure that House didn't see his actions as a threat. When it came to food he always had to be careful. During the first weeks House would either ignore food completely or wolf it down so fast he brought it up again. Sometimes though, he would try to hide it or stash it somewhere, as if he was afraid there wouldn't be any more food in the future. Lately House's eating habits had improved to being almost normal again, but sometimes Wilson still found food hidden in odd places.

Wilson emptied the tie onto the plate. "And don't play with my ties. You know I need them for work. And I don't care if you don't like them."

Wilson was trying to straighten the tie out, when he heard House make another sound. This time it sounded definitely like a snort. Wilson's stomach jumped. House had never made a noise before, not since he'd drawn into himself.

Wilson looked up. "You think this is funny, eh?" he said, while silently pleading 'Please House, say something. Anything. Speak to me.'

But House didn't speak. His attention had already wandered off. He'd grabbed his computer game and was busily pushing buttons. Wilson sighed. It would have been too good to be true if House were suddenly starting to talk again. But he had made a noise. That was a step in the right direction. Maybe if Wilson gave it time, House would come back eventually.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: A longish part 3, fresh from the printing presses (or rather the keyboard).

The bold part is bold, because they are quotes from the original contract story by diysheep. I thought why try to do it again, when it's already been done perfectly. Call me lazy if you want... :-)

Thanks a lot again to my beta's teyla and diysheep!

Mysterious Ways..., Chapter 3

"It's a good sign, isn't it?" Wilson asked anxiously. He'd just told Dr. Simpson about the noises House had been making lately. House was sitting next to him on the therapist's couch staring blankly out of the window.

Dr. Simpson smiled. "Yes. It's a good sign. But don't get your hopes up too high. It might not mean much."

"But he could be coming back?" It was more a statement than a question. Wilson knew he was being stupid for hoping, but he just couldn't help it. If he gave up his hope he would have nothing left.

"Yes. He could be coming back. But he could also stay the way he is for the rest of his life," Dr. Simpson said sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson, but there simply are no guaranties. I know you need to hope and there is a good chance that he might come back, but there's also a good chance that he won't."

Wilson nodded. He felt as if all energy had suddenly drained out of him. He took House's hand gently into his own. "I know. I know there's a chance that this is permanent. I just... I can't believe that. I have to hope that he's going to be fine again one day. Because... I... I just can't deal with the thought of having lost him for good." He rubbed his face.

"Like I said before. The noises he's making are a good sign. It means something is changing. It's a positive change. There's still hope." Dr. Simpson sounded sincere.

Wilson was really glad that he'd found Dr. Simpson. To Wilson he was, like Clarence, a god-send. He not only seemed to understand Wilson's own hopes and fears, he was also brilliant with House. He wasn't trying to force anything and he fully supported Wilson's decision to care for House at home.

There had been other psychiatrists who had simply stated that House was a lost case and should be send to a mental institution. There had been quite a bit of yelling on Wilson's side on those occasions.

Dr. Simpson had never so much as mentioned institutional care. He had made a few suggestions concerning the organization and routine of House's days that turned out to be very helpful. He also kept talking to House during the sessions, almost like Wilson, as if House was still somewhere inside and could hear him. That always gave Wilson hope.

Wilson nodded again and rubbed the back of his neck. "So, is there anything I should do?"

"Just keep going about your daily business the way you were. It's obviously good for him. He seems to be doing much better."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_I'm sitting in the courtroom. During the last few days everything has seemed strangely out of focus. Like a bad dream. The nightmare I have been stuck in for the last year has turned even more cruel. And yet the handcuffs binding my wrists and the chains around my ankles are horribly real. Free movement, the most basic of human rights has been taken from me. I now belong to a system that will do with me as it pleases. I am no longer a person. I am a number. I am nothing._

_"...the sentence set down by this court is life without parole." The judge is talking. I've missed the first part of what she was saying, but it makes no difference. I tune her out again. Life without parole. I wonder how long I'll live. _

_The guards step forward and I am led out through a side door, my feet moving only inches at a time. I am leaning heavily on the guard because they have taken my cane away. The last thing I see is Wilson watching me. His eyes are wide and full of sadness. _

_I wish there was something I could do or say to make him understand. Explain to him how much it hurts to have to push him away. How much I miss him. That I don't have a choice. But I can't explain it. I can't even talk to him anymore. They've made sure of that._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"James Wilson."

"Hello. This is John House." Wilson raised his eyebrows. He hadn't heard from House's father since the day he came to see his son and found him in the partial catatonia.

John continued. "I'm in town for a VFW meeting and I thought since I'm already here, I might as well come by and see Greg. You're not busy are you?"

"Erm. No. Well, when were you planning to come?" Wilson wondered why John House would suddenly want to see his son. The last time they'd spoken he'd made it very clear that he didn't want anything to do with him. Actually, Wilson didn't like the idea of John House coming by very much. He wondered if he should just lie. But then again, he was House's dad, and Wilson could hardly deny him the right to visit his only son.

"I'll be done here around two pm. I'll come over afterwards. That okay?"

"Yeah, sure. You know the way? Good. We'll be waiting. I'll tell him you're coming." Wilson thought he could hear John snort shortly, before he said goodbye.

c-c-c-c-c

The doorbell rang. Wilson opened and let John House inside.

"So, how is he? Any changes?" John looked around the living room and his eyes fell on House, slumped on the couch, playing some sort of computer game.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable. John House always intimidated him. He never knew how to act around the man. "Well, his health is improving. He's eating normally again and he's gained some weight. That's good, because as soon as he's strong enough we can start with the corrective surgeries to take away some of the pain." Wilson paused. He knew this was not what John's question was aimed at.

"Otherwise... there hasn't been much change. He's started making noises, though. That's a good sign. It might mean he's coming back." Wilson tried to sound positive. It had been almost a month since the first time House had made the first sound and he still did it from time to time, but otherwise nothing seemed to have changed. 'Give him time' the therapist had said, so Wilson tried to be patient.

John House nodded absentmindedly at Wilson's answer. He walked around the couch until he stood in front of it and then he stared at his son.

"You can talk to him, if you like." Wilson offered.

John looked up. "What's the point? He won't answer anyway."

Wilson was spared an answer, because at that moment Clarence walked into the room. "It's a nice day outside Doc Wilson. Do you still want to go for a walk?"

Wilson nodded, relieved. "Yeah. Get him ready, will you?" He turned towards House. "Wanna for a walk?" House just pulled on Wilson's sleeve.

They went for a walk in the nearby park. House shuffled along in front of them as far as the leash would allow, lost in his own world. To Wilson and Clarence this was nothing new, but Wilson noticed how John eyed his son strangely and kept glancing around at the people walking past them. It looked as if he was ashamed of being seen as part of such a strange group. Wilson suppressed a sigh. He wished John House would show at least some compassion.

c-c-c-c-c

John stood in the doorway, watching the pile of pillows and blankets underneath which was his son. Wilson had just stuffed Mr. Vicodin into the pile and kissed Greg goodnight.

"When he was a kid he hated going to sleep. He was never still. Always moving around, talking, asking questions. It used to drive me crazy."

For the first time Wilson felt genuinely sorry for John. How hard it must be for him to watch his son like this. Wilson knew John had been everything but a perfect dad, but he liked to believe that nevertheless he loved his son.

"He will come back." Wilson said sympathetically, reassuring John as well as himself.

John turned around and looked at Wilson. "That's what _you_ say!" He practically spat the word 'you'. For a second Wilson was forcefully reminded of House scolding him for his 'pep-talks' after the infarction.

"We have to give him time." he said, guiding John back into the living room.

"You just want to believe that, because you feel guilty," John accused him.

Wilson stopped in his tracks and stared at John, unable to come up with an answer. He'd thought about his motives for taking care of House before. He'd even discussed them with Cuddy when he'd closed his practice to be able to focus on House's recovery. Shortly after the truth had come out he'd felt guilty for not being there for House during all those years, but he, and Cuddy too, had soon realized that there was nothing they could have done.

"You're the reason he's like this! It was your name on that blasted contract! And the only reason your sticking around is because you feel guilty," John continued, his volume rising with each sentence.

Wilson's paralysis broke, and he felt outrage rising. "It's not my fault!" he shouted back. "It's the fault of some crazy lunatic who tried to revenge the death of his daughter." He couldn't understand how John House could think there was something he could have done.

But then, John House had never seen the contract and all its clauses and sub-clauses. All he knew was that his son had suffered to save Wilson and his colleagues. Wilson also knew that John House had never understood his sons actions and motives. Maybe it was only natural for him to assume that there must have been some sort of error or oversight on Wilson's side.

Clarence almost ran into the room. "Shut up, both of you. You're gonna wake him." He walked over to John and took his arm. "I think you should go now, Mr. House." He steered the older man towards the door.

Clarence managed to send John House off, without any further incident. His size was probably the reason for John House's willingness to comply. When he returned to the living room Wilson was sitting on the couch, his head buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Clarence sat down next to him and said gently, "He's wrong, you know. It's not your fault. There was nothing you could have done."

"I know." Wilson swallowed. The only problem was that knowing didn't make dealing with the situation any easier.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"**Fuck it Jimmy, you know I hate chocolate. How many years have you known me - I like strawberry…" **

"**You big limping twerp. You came back… Hang on. Why did you decide to come back?"**

"**Well, you… were looking a bit down. And why am I tied to you by a piece of string?"**

At first Wilson was lost for words. He had no idea what to say, or rather, what to say first. Did House even remember the last months? He stared at his friends face. Still the same face and yet so different from the one he'd been looking into only a few minutes ago. The blue eyes were blazing.

"Hello-o? If you've gone catatonic now be warned, I'm in no shape to take care of you." House's voice was mocking, but there was a sense of seriousness underneath the light tone, that Wilson picked up immediately. So House remembered. That was good, he hoped.

Wilson shrugged. "You had the tendency to run off at the most inappropriate moments. It's just a precaution," he said apologetically.

"Well, seeing that the danger has passed, I guess it's safe to lose the rope." House said and tried to unfasten the leash. Wilson quickly moved to help him.

"I guess we better go home and get changed." Wilson said, gesturing at the mess on both their shirts that used to be a chocolate shake.

"Yeah. But Mr. Vicodin wants his strawberry shake first," House said. It was a little odd to hear House talking about a toy as if it were an actual living being, but then, all of this was odd, odd and wonderful and unbelievable, and Wilson's head was still reeling, so he didn't think about it too deeply.

He got House his shake and then drove them both back to the apartment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx

"So, how do you feel, Dr. House?" Dr. Simpson asked in a friendly, casual tone.

House scowled. He hated shrinks. He'd never liked them and he still wasn't sure why he'd allowed Wilson to talk him into seeing this one. The whole thing wasn't made easier by the fact that Simpson had seen him during his salad-days. The idea alone made House want to run away and hide. And that feeling wasn't very comforting either, because it wasn't part of his old self. This was his new self, the self that he hated, because it was constantly afraid of everything.

"I'm fine." he grumbled.

Dr. Simpson changed to subject. "I see you brought Mr. Vicodin?" He pointed to the toy in House's lap.

House nodded, feeling embarrassed. He knew that during the catatonia he had taken Mr. Vicodin with him where ever he went. Now that he was back to his old self; well, as 'back' as he was ever going to get, he still found himself clinging to the giant pill as if it offered some kind of protection or reassurance. He didn't know why that was, he only knew that when he went somewhere without Mr. Vicodin, he felt lonely, naked, as if something was missing. He assumed that these feelings would pass with time: at least that was what Wilson had said. And if there was anyone he would trust it was Wilson.

"He looks cute," Dr. Simpson said.

"He's ugly," House answered.

"He's... unusual. You seem to like him." It was only half a question, half an invitation.

House decided he felt generous, so he answered truthfully. "He makes me feel safe."

"That's good."

"It's stupid. He's only a toy. A piece of cloth with two buttons and a big V. He doesn't even have arms." House was getting annoyed. He just wasn't sure if he was annoyed by the therapist or by himself.

"Sometimes it doesn't need much to make us feel safe. I have a night-light in my bedroom because I'm afraid of the dark." Dr. Simpson said, obviously trying to get House to relax and trust him.

House snorted. "I bet it's one of those really boring adult thingies. A light blue bubble, eh?"

Dr. Simpson smiled. "It's a crescent moon, but yes, you could say it's quite boring."

"I hate boring." House said more to himself than to the therapist. It was true, though. He'd always hated boredom. He'd always kept himself busy before, but now his life seemed to exist of nothing but boredom. Boredom and pain. The two pillars of his existence.

"Are you bored, Dr. House?"

House snorted again. "Of course I'm bored. I sit at home all day with nothing to do, because there's nothing much I can do."

Dr. Simpson nodded, his face serious. "You're still recovering. You have to give it time, be patient."

"Yeah, well, problem is I'm not a very patient person."

"I can see that." Dr. Simpson played with his pen. "Is there anything you would like to do?"

House shrugged. Was there anything? Sometimes he wished he could turn back time. Sometimes he just wanted to pretend nothing had ever happened and return to work. But that 'sometimes' was very rare. Sometimes he wanted a lollipop or a new computer game. Sometimes he just wanted to die. That 'sometimes' happened only about twice a day. But if he told the therapist about it, he would probably end up in a straight jacket with a one-way ticket to a padded cell.

Dr. Simpson was still waiting for an answer. He'd have to answer him eventually. And he couldn't keep reflecting every question that aimed at his feelings. He was too tired for it. He didn't want to play games anymore. But still, some stubborn streak in him refused to give up more private information than absolutely necessary. House looked down at Mr. Vicodin and suddenly he had an idea. It was stupid, really, but maybe it would work for him. Maybe he could trick his own mind.

He looked up and said. "Mr. Vicodin would like to be able to do something useful again."

Dr. Simpson raised a surprised eyebrow. There was a moment of silence. 'Come on, get the hint' House thought.

Then Dr. Simpson spoke. "Well, that's a very reasonable thing to want. Is there anything in particular that Mr. Vicodin would want to do?"

House thought about it. "There isn't much he can do, apart from what he did before. And that's not really an option anymore."

"That must be rather frustrating for Mr. Vicodin." House only gave another snort as answer. Dr. Simpson continued. "I think that there's a pretty good chance that some day Mr. Vicodin could return to doing what he did before. And in the meantime he could maybe start catching up on the things he's missed."

House looked surprised. Did this guy really think he could return to his old job? Even if he were physically and mentally up to it, there was no way anyone would hire him. He'd had trouble getting a job even before all this had happened. He simply wasn't a good doctor. A good diagnostician, yes, but crappy with people. Everybody knew that. He still didn't know why Cuddy had hired him in the first place. And she certainly wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

But the idea of catching up on recent developments didn't sound too bad. He could do that. He wasn't sure what the point would be, but maybe he'd figure it out some day. At the very least it would take his mind off the past.

"It's not a totally insane idea," he told the therapist, even though he harbored no false hopes of ever being able to work again. He hoped the guy would take his comment as the compliment it was and would leave him alone. At least for now.

Apparently the shrink did, because Dr. Simpson wrapped the session up quickly. House was grateful. He was tired and every muscle in his body hurt. All he could think of was Wilson's dinner, his pain meds and his bed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_I am dreaming again. Lately its been always the same dream. _

_I am running into the darkness. It is raining and I feel the needles of water slicing into my face. The road seems to have been churned up into puddles and mud that threaten to drag me down. I stumble and fall. My whole body aches. But I don't even hesitate. I get up and I am running headlong into the night. I can hear nothing but the sound of my feet hitting the ground, the drumming of my blood in my ears and the gasping of my breath. _

_Why am I running? I don't know. All I know is I have to keep running. _

_It's funny, really, because I know this is a dream. In reality I can't even run. I can barely walk. But still I keep running. I run until every step makes me wince and my legs shout at me to let them rest. Rainwater streaks across my face and trickles down the back of my neck. _

_At last I have to stop. There is a bank of grass by the side of the road and I collapse onto it. I have no idea how far I've run. A mile? It could have been ten. _

_The headlights of a car appear in the distance. I know this would be a good moment to wake up. But instead I lift my head and begin to get to my feet. I should keep running, but I'm too tired. I should wake up, but I can't. All I can do is wait for the car to arrive. _

_The car slows down and stops. It's headlamps light up the rain, making it look like spilled ink. It is a sports car. A black Jaguar. The door opens and the driver gets out. I can barely make out his face in the dark. He steps forward. I can see his smile, white teeth gleaming. _

_I know that face. That sick, mocking smile. I know I should have kept running. I know I should wake up. I have to wake up now, before he reaches me. Wake up, Greg. _

_Wake up!_

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Dr. Wilson."

At the sound of his name Wilson stopped and turned around. Dr. Chase was running towards him along the hospital corridor. Wilson and Chase hadn't spoken much over the past five years. They'd worked alongside each other, sometimes together on the same case, but they'd always avoided any personal talk.

The reason for this was that the only thing that they had in common was House. Wilson had been House's friend, Chase had been his employee. Wilson wasn't sure how much Chase had liked House, but it had always been obvious that of the three fellows he had been the one who'd been emotionally attached to House the most. And he'd been in love with Cameron.

Talking about House would only hurt. So they just avoided talking at all.

After the story of the murder had hit the news, the chances for Foreman and Chase of getting a new job somewhere else had been slim. Even though no one blamed them, they were always associated with House. So Cuddy had offered them to stay as attendings at PPTH. They were still working in the diagnostics department, although under a new boss.

"Dr. Chase," Wilson said when Chase had caught up with him. He had a pretty good idea what this conversation would be about. Ever since House had been released from prison Chase had been eyeing Wilson in the hallways, clearly wondering if he could dare ask about his former boss. Wilson suppressed a sigh. He didn't want to talk about House, but he guessed he owed Chase at least a little bit of information.

"I was just wondering how... well, how is... House?" Chase asked a little awkwardly.

Wilson forced a smile. "He's recuperating. He's still in a lot of pain, but he's getting better."

Chase nodded. "That's good. Will he, I mean, is there any chance he might be... working again in the future?"

That question surprised Wilson. Not that he hadn't been thinking about it. He'd actually been toying with the idea ever since House had started talking again. But he'd had no idea that someone else would be thinking along the same lines. He hadn't even dared to talk to Cuddy about it. Not yet anyway.

He shrugged. "I don't know. It's really up to him, I guess. At the moment there are more pressing issues we have to deal with." He didn't want to go into details, but Chase seemed to understand anyway.

"Corrective surgeries," he muttered.

Wilson nodded. It wasn't just the surgeries, though. House still had nightmares and panic-attacks whenever something upset him. He still didn't like going out of the house. He hated being in public even more than in the old days.

Chase's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Well, tell him that I'm... thinking of him and that I hope he'll be getting better soon." After a moment he added hopefully, "Maybe I could come and visit someday?"

Wilson shook his head. "I'll tell him what you said, but I don't think visiting him is a good idea. I'm sorry Chase, but he... isn't comfortable around people anymore." Not that House ever had been. He especially didn't want anyone who'd known him in his former life to see him in the state he was in now. Wilson understood House's need for privacy. Wilson was only glad that House wasn't trying to drive him away too. He didn't know why House let him in, but the truth was he didn't really care. As long as his presence helped House recover, he would be there. House should never feel alone again.

"It's alright. I get it. Don't worry, if he's ready some day in the future, maybe you could let me know?"

"I will." This time Wilson's smile was genuine. "Thanks for asking," he added as an afterthought.

TBC

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it. There's one more part to come for sure. After that I don't know yet. As always: I have a big bucket for suggestions and ideas standing ready under my desk. :-)


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Vicodin, Chapter 4

_There is a knock on the door. The knot in my stomach that never seems to go away these days tightens painfully. I get up and open the door. _

_"Hi Greg, mind if we come in?"_

_I keep my head bowed, my eyes fixed on the floor, and step aside. I don't want them to come in, but there's nothing I can do. My apartment used to be my sanctuary, but they've taken that away from me. Like so many other things they have taken away from me in the past months. _

_The lawyer walks over to my CD rack._ Don't you dare touch my music!_ I want to shout the words, but I don't. I just lower my eyes again, because I can't bear to see this. _

_"Mmmhhh, what shall we hear today? Any preferences, Greg? Ah, I think we'll go with this one today." _

_The lawyer takes a CD and put it in the stereo. For a second I wish I could go temporarily deaf. And blind, so I don't have to see them either. Deaf and Blind. For all I know that's exactly how I might end up one day._

_The lawyer presses the play-button and the music starts. My stomach clenches. The Who. He picked The Who. The first song is my favourite 'Behind Blue Eyes'. _

_"Well, ain't that nice. I think we can get started now."_

_And so they do. _

_And the music plays. _

_And then they come again. _

_And the music plays again._

_And again. _

_I hate The Who. _

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

House looked down at the CD in his hands. 'The Who – Who's Next'. He stood there, not moving, just staring at the small object. Cuddy started to wonder if if maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to give him a present.

Then, suddenly, House raised his arm and threw the CD against the wall. It clattered to the floor, the case breaking open. House limped over to where it had fallen and started attacking it with his crutches and feet until there was nothing left but broken pieces.

Cuddy had jumped at the sudden movement and opened her mouth to say or ask something. Realizing that she had no idea what to say, she closed her mouth again, instead watching the scene with alarm. House's expression showed nothing but pure hatred.

Wilson, on hearing the noise, came rushing into the living room. He had been in the kitchen, preparing dinner for the three of them. A week ago Cuddy had asked Wilson if she could come and visit House. Wilson had had a tough couple of days talking House into it, but eventually with a lot of grumbling House had agreed. He knew that Cuddy had seen him while he'd been catatonic and maybe he thought it wasn't such a bad idea to show her that he was back in his right mind.

Wilson had decided that a small dinner party would be the perfect setting. If the conversation was awkward, at least they had food to coat it over. Secretly Wilson felt like this was a celebration of House's return to the world of the living. But he made sure not to tell House this, or he would have locked himself in his room and refused to come back out.

"What happened?" Wilson asked into the room, surveying the scene.

Cuddy shrugged helplessly. She was obviously at a loss.

"House?" Wilson's voice was low, questioning.

House's response was barely more than a growl. „Leave me alone." Without looking at any of them he stalked out of the room. They could hear House's bedroom door close with a snap.

Wilson turned towards Cuddy. "What happened?" he repeated his question.

She raised her hands in a gesture of puzzlement. "I didn't do anything. I just gave him a CD. It was a gift. He stared at it for a minute and then he started smashing it."

Wilson felt the tension in his shoulders rise. He absentmindedly massaged the back of his neck. "What kind of CD?"

"The Who. It used to be one of his favourites. I thought he might like it."

Wilson sighed and shook his head sadly. He'd expected something like this. "He... doesn't like them any more. He won't say why, but I guess it brings up bad memories. Maybe _they_ played it while..." He trailed off. They always referred to House's torturers as 'they'. The only name they had ever used was that of Thompson. The otheres were, to Wilson, a faceless group of non-humans. In his mind they didn't even look human.

Cuddy looked sad and curious at the same time. "How do you know?"

Wilson realized he needed to explain further. "You know, House has these... triggers. Certain things can provoke a memory or an emotion that catapults him right back to the time when the bad stuff happened. They are random things. It took me months to figure most of them out. The Who is one of them."

Wilson thought back to the day when he'd found out about The Who. It had been during House's catatonia. During the first weeks after House had come to live with Wilson everything had been a 'trial and error' thing. The simplest things could trigger episodes of either uncontrollable rage, in which House would thrash anything within reach. Other times he would crawl into a corner, shaking and crying while trying to ward of his imaginary attackers with mortal fear etched into his face.

It had been a hard time for both of them. Wilson had been constantly on the edge of a nervous breakdown, always watching House for signs of another episode. Anything could be a trigger. Noises. Objects. Smells. People.

Wilson had been determined to find and eliminate everything that could upset House. Finally it had seemed like he had figured out most of the triggers. They'd had a pretty good week. House hadn't had an episode in two days and seemed much calmer than before.

That particular morning Wilson had felt as happy as their current situation would allow. He'd felt like singing. Knowing that his voice sounded horrible when he sang, he'd opted for putting on some music instead. He'd chosen The Who, because it remembered him of happier days, when House would sit in his office, listening to 'Baba O'Reily' on full blast. Wilson had made sure the stereo was on low and started the CD.

The moment the first chords drifted through the room House tensed. Next his face became contorted with fear. He basically jumped from the sofa and bolted into the far corner of the room. In his hurry he stumbled over his own feet, still shackled with imaginary chains and crashed to the floor. He didn't even try to get up again, but crawled the rest of the way. He pressed himself into the corner, curling into a fetal position and putting his arms over his head protectively.

The moment Wilson saw House's panic stricken face Wilson turned off the music. "Shit!" He muttered to himself. Fucking shit!" Absentmindedly he realized that he had never sworn like that before all this had started. How was he supposed to know that music was a trigger too.

Wilson hadn't played any music before, simply because House wasn't used to noise anymore. House used to love music. Wilson would never have guessed that this could have changed too. _They_ really were bastards.

He went over into the corner and started his routine of calming House down. It had taken House over an hour until he had calmed down enough for Wilson to lead him back to the sofa.

Wilson quickly told Cuddy about the incident and told her that she shouldn't feel guilty, because she couldn't have known. Then he excused himself to look after House.

He gently knocked on the bedroom door and entered without waiting for a response.

"Hey. You alright?"

"Leave me alone," came the muffled answer from beneath the mountain of pillows. House still slept in the crib Wilson had gotten for him, although he now left the railing down on one side.

"Sorry, can't. Need to know if you're alright first," Wilson said in the tone he knew made House understand that he was serious.

The pillow-mountain moved a bit. House's head appeared from beneath it, but he had turned his face away from Wilson. "I won't throw a tantrum or have a nervous breakdown, if that's what you're afraid of," he said in a tight voice.

"That's good, although it's not exactly what I meant." Wilson put his hands on his hips. When House didn't answer he sighed. Maybe a different strategy then. "How does Mr. Vicodin feel?"

Wilson could see the little white toy peeking out from beneath the pillows. At Wilson's question he moved a bit and Wilson knew that House had his hand wrapped tightly around him. House turned his head, so Wilson could see his profile. Dr. Simpson had told Wilson that House, if he wanted to share an emotion or a wish, would always use Mr. Vicodin to articulate it. It made him less uncomfortable to share such personal information when he could pretend to be talking about a third person. Wilson didn't quite understand how House's mind worked in this matter, but he accepted the possibility gladly.

"He feels stupid," House said after a while, frowning.

"There's no reason why he should feel stupid." Wilson said quietly. The last thing he wanted was to upset House even more, but they needed to talk about this.

"I smashed a CD!" House sounded angry.

Wilson knew this was only half the story. House was angry and upset, because Cuddy had seen his reaction. He tried to turn the situation into a joke. "Cuddy doesn't mind. She said it wasn't that expensive anyway. And she wants to know if it helps with anger-management, 'cause if it does she has a bunch of crappy CD's she'd like to try it out on herself."

"She should've taken up kick-boxing ages ago," House said, but there was no real fire in his voice.

There was a long pause. Wilson waited for whatever House might say next.

Finally the whole truth burst out of House. "I hate _them_! They ruined everything._ Everything_. They took my job, my friends, my life. And they took my music too. I can't even play an instrument anymore." He stared at his deformed hands.

Wilson swallowed the lump that was rising in his throat. "They have taken a lot from you, but not everthing. You still have friends. I'm your friend. Cuddy is your friend. You're still alive. You survived, despite of everything they did to you. You're still in your right mind and maybe one day, you may even work again." There was a hopeful note in that last sentence.

House snorted. But after a moment he looked up at Wilson and said in a whisper. "Mr. Vicodin is glad that you're my friend."

Wilson blinked against the burning he could feel in his eyes. "And you can tell him that this will never change." He took a deep breath. "Now, are you gonna come back out, so we can have dinner? I slaved in the kitchen for three hours to make your favourite food." Wilson knew that the only way to get House to come out again was to make his mouth water.

And sure enough. "What's for desert?"

"Macadamia nut pancakes with maple syrup."

House looked as if he was weighing the fact of having to deal with Cuddy against the benefit of having Wilson's roast chicken and pancakes. Finally he pulled himself out of bed. Wilson was actually a little surprised. Only a few weeks ago House would have stayed in his room knowing for sure that Wilson would save him his food for later.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was a warm summer evening. Wilson had come home from work late and found that House had actually prepared dinner. It was nothing special, just a few slices of toast and scrambled eggs, but the fact alone that House had made it told Wilson that his friend was feeling as well as it was possible for him.

They were sitting on the sofa. Wilson was reading a magazine. House was watching mindless soaps, his fingers twisting and untwisting Mr. Vicodins legs. It was in the middle of 'Days of our Lives' when a sudden thunder broke the monotony of the TV babble. They both looked out the window. The obligatory lightning followed almost immediately. Wilson had counted the seconds in between, so he knew that the thunderstorm was basically on top of them. He quickly looked over to House to see if the sudden change of weather had made the pain worse. But House seemed as calm as before. Wilson was glad that thunderstorms weren't a trigger for House's panic attacks.

They resumed their former activities, while the downpour soon drowned all noises. Quite suddenly House pulled himself to his feet. For a second Wilson was startled, thinking that another painful memory had resurfaced, but House's calm profile told him that everthing was alright. He watched House hobble towards the front door.

That was strange. House never left the house, if he didn't absolutely have to. Wilson pondered if he should follow his friend, but decided against it. After all, House was an adult and didn't need constant supervision. At least not anymore.

House went outside leaving the door open. Time passed. After five minutes Wilson got a little nervous. He tried to peer outside and see what House was doing, but the angle was impossible. Throwing his former resolve overboard, Wilson got up and followed House outside.

House was standing on the deserted sidewalk, his face lifted upwards into the torrential rain. His clothes were already soaked, clinging to his body and revealing his gaunt frame. Wilson was glad that it was a warm evening.

He stayed in the doorway and spoke loud enough to be heard through the rain. "House?"

House turned his head and looked at him. There was a strange expression on his face. It took Wilson a few seconds to realize that it was joy. He wasn't actually smiling or laughing, but there was a sort of calm happiness in his features and his eyes that Wilson hadn't seen in years. It made Wilson's heart jump.

He stepped out into the rain. "House, what are you doing out here?"

"Rain." House said simply as if this answered all questions. He lifted his head towards the falling drops again.

Wilson, who was by now dripping wet, too, just stared at his friend. House must have noticed it, because after a while he looked at Wilson again. "I haven't done this for years."

Suddenly Wilson understood. House had been locked away for so long, not being able to see or experience the natural events that most people took for granted every day.

Wilson breathed in deeply. It had been a long time since he had consciously smelled a summer rain. It smelled fresh and clean and the heavy heat of the day was gone. It reminded him of his childhood, when during the summer he and his brothers had spent their time at his grandparents place and had played outside almost every day. They had been surprised by summer storms quite often. Usually they had fled into the shelter of the porch and watched the changes the sudden moisture was making to the world with fascination. He wondered if House had happy memories like this.

Only when the rain had died down to a dribble did House move again.

"I guess I'll take my shower now. I'm ready for bed." he said quietly once they were inside.

"Alright. Need any help?" House still had problems getting undressed sometimes. Considering that House was only wearing a t-shirt and jeans, Wilson thought he should be okay on his own, but he asked anyway. He was so used to taking care of House, it came naturally.

"Nah, I'll be fine."

Wilson settled back into the sofa. He saw Mr. Vicodin lying in the corner and took him. He studied the small toy, remembering the day when House had gotten him. Even during his salad-days House had somehow managed to get what he wanted. Mr. Vicodin didn't look the way he had when he'd been new. First of all, his eyes were now purple buttons, which, Wilson had to admit, made him look much nicer.

The toy showed obvious signs of use. The white fabric looked a bit worn and the big V on his chest was peeling at the edges. There were also a few faint stains that even Wilson's continued attempts couldn't remove. Well, it was a wonder that he was still in such a good shape considering that House took him everywhere he went.

Wilson smiled to himself, silently thanking Dr. Simpson for suggesting a 'security blanket'. Mr. Vicodin was helping House's recovery in a way that nothing else could. Functioning as an 'extended psyche', he had made conversations about House's feelings a lot easier.

The shower was turned off in the bathroom and about ten minutes later Wilson could hear House shuffling into his bedroom. He stayed on the sofa enjoying the silence. He expected House to return any minute to retrieve Mr. Vicodin. House never went to bed without him.

But House didn't reappear. Wilson got up and went to House's bedroom. He knocked on the door gently. "House?"

"C'me in."

"Hey, I just wanted to bring you Mr. Vicodin. You left him in the living room." Wilson stepped into the semi-dark bedroom. House's room was never really dark these days. House was afraid of the darkness, so he'd made Wilson buy him the ugliest night-light he could find.

"Did I? I didn't realize." House sounded as surprised as Wilson felt.

"Do you want him?" Wilson asked cautiously.

"Yeah, give him here." House stuck out a gnarled hand. Wilson handed him the toy. House put Mr. Vicodin on the pillow next to him instead of pressing him to his chest like he usually did.

Wilson watched attentively. This was new. And he'd learned the hard way that with House 'new' didn't necessarily mean 'good'. But House seemed calm and... almost normal. Wilson decided that, until he had evidence to the contrary, he would see this new development as a positive step.

"You alright?" he asked, stepping back towards the door.

"Yeah. I'm fine." And Wilson could tell that this time it was the truth. "G'night Wilson."

"Good night, House."

TBC - yes there is more to come. I'm working on it:-)


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This is the final part. **

**Mr. Vicodin, Part 5**

Wilson had always liked grocery shopping. He liked picking out the food. Since House had come to live with him he had on the one hand been more careful when it came to the nutrition values of the stuff he picked. On the other hand he found himself buying much more junk food than he used to. His thoughts were so focused on House's rather unhealthy food preferences, that he accidently ended up in the toy aisle of the store. He'd never understood why a food store needed to have a whole aisle of children's stuff, but there it was. And he was right in the middle of it.

He looked around and shook his head, silently berating himself for his inattentiveness. He grabbed his trolley harder and headed for the end of the aisle. He was almost out when he passed a section of musical instruments. One caught his eye. A harmonica.

He stopped and stared at the little instrument. A smile played around his lips. He remembered his childhood, when his grandmother had given him a harmonica on his sixth birthday. She'd taught him to play a few folk- and children's songs. Wilson had never had never had much musical talent, but he remembered the fun he'd had trying things out on the little silver thing. He also remembered how easy it was to hold.

House's words echoed through his mind. '_And they took my music too. I can't even play an instrument anymore.'_ House would be able to play this instrument. Considering House's musical abilities he shouldn't find it hard to learn to play.

Wilson chose the biggest harmonica and put it in the trolley. Smiling to himself he went to do the rest of his shopping.

c-c-c-c-c

"House, come out of that room. I bought all your favourite stuff. You could at least provide me with some entertainment while I put it away," Wilson called good-naturedly as he started unpacking the bags in the kitchen.

A few minutes later House shuffled into the room. "I suck at entertainment. Snark and irony, that's what I'm good at. And freaking out, of course."

Wilson suppressed a sigh. House seemed to be in one of his moods again. Maybe he should wait with the harmonica. There were two possible outcomes. Either it lifted House's mood or he'd be offended and head back to his room for the rest of the day.

Wilson decided to risk it.

"I got you something," Wilson said, keeping his voice light.

House squinted at the bags. "The good Czech beer? I haven't had a Staropramen in ages."

"Nope, sorry, no Czech beer this time. I didn't even know the they have their own beer, much less that you can buy it here."

House rolled his eyes. "Do you know a nation that hasn't got their own beer? Plus the European stuff is way better than anything we've ever produced."

Wilson shook his head, grinning. "Let's just forget it."

"Fine. What'd you get me?"

Wilson dug through one of the bags, making a show of getting House's gift. Finally he pulled the harmonica out of the bag and hid it quickly behind his back. "Promise me first you won't get angry."

House looked at him suspiciously. "Why would I get angry?"

"Because you're weird like that sometimes. I just saw this at the store and I thought you might like it." Wilson wasn't sure anymore if it really had been a good idea. But now it was too late.

"Stop explaining and gimme!" House commanded and held out one hand.

Wilson dropped the harmonica into it and held his breath. His eyes were fixed on House's face, searching for clues as to his reaction.

House stared at the small silver instrument for a long time. Wilson was about to speak again, just to break the silence, when House finally whispered, "Cool!"

"You like it?"

"Yeah. I had one like that as a kid. I loved it. Haven't thought about it in years..." House sounded like he was far away, remembering a happier time. Wilson was suddenly very glad to have gone with his instinct. His face split into a wide grin.

Then House got up and left the room without another word. A short time later the first sounds of a harmonica playing drifted through the house.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wilson opened the door to the house, feeling tired. It had been a rough day at work and all he wanted to do was put his feet up, watch mindless TV and forget all about it.

"House, it's me," Wilson called when he stepped inside.

There was no answer. That was odd. Usually House would greet him with a grunted "Hey" from the sofa. He checked the living room - no House.

"House?" Wilson was getting nervous. He went to House's bedroom and pushed the door open.

House was there, sitting in the corner. The one he always fled to when he needed to feel safe. He sat on the air-matress Wilson had put there during his 'salad-days', his legs stretched out in front of him. He didn't look up when Wilson entered.

"House, are you alright? What happened?" Wilson slowly advanced, not wanting to upset House even more. He noticed letters lying in House's lap and next to him on the mattress. Lots of letters.

"I had no idea." House said in a tight voice.

"No idea about what?" Wilson asked.

House looked up. Wilson could see that his cheeks were wet. He looked more closely at the letters, trying to find out who had sent them and why they would make House cry. He read the address. Dr. Gregory House, Inmate 501437, Burrows Correctional Facility, Lakewood, New Jersey.

It was then that he recognized the handwriting. It was his own.

He'd come home from the court on the day House was sent to prison for the rest of his life. He'd sat down on his crappy hotel-bed and cried. He'd cried and cried until there were no more tears left. Then he'd simply curled into a ball and stayed that way for hours, not thinking, not feeling anything but emptiness.

The next few days had gone by in much the same way. He'd gone to work and done his job, then he'd gone home and curled up in his bed, feeling like he'd lost the one thing that was most important to him.

He'd thought of House. How he must be feeling. How his life would be like from now on. Alone in amidst thieves and murderers and rapists... It had been on the fourth evening that he'd made a decision. There was nothing he could do about the fact that House would be in prison for the rest of his life. But there was something he could do to make House feel less alone.

He would write to House. He would write to House every month, maybe even more often. Starting right now.

He had gone to his desk and sat down. He had pulled a sheet of paper towards him and started to write.

_Dear House,_

_How are you doing? Hope the food is okay. Hope you don't try to steal any from the other guys. I'm not sure they'll be as polite about it as I was. _

_I'm doing alright. Today a 28 year old mother of two was showing signs of remission. Plus no-one died. So all in all a good day. _

He had almost written _I miss you_, but stopped himself at the last minute. House wouldn't like that. Instead he'd gone on about meaningless everyday things.

He'd kept his promise. He'd written to House every month. He'd always imagined that his letters had helped House survive during all those years. It was only now that he realized House had never gotten his letters. Not a single one of them.

They both stared at the pile of envelopes in House's lap.

"I'm sorry." Wilson whispered eventually.

"No." House's voice was firm. "Don't be sorry. Be proud. What you did..." his voice broke.

Wilson's legs felt shaky so he sat down close to House with his back against the wall. "How did you get them?"

„They came by post today. A big parcel. Apparently the FBI's still going through all the stuff. Someone must have thought they weren't important enough to be kept or maybe they thought I'd like them – whatever."

Wilson nodded. "Did you... did you read them?"

"Yeah."

"They're silly. Only stupid everyday stuff. I don't even know why I wrote them."

House's answer was so quiet Wilson barely understood him. "I wish I'd gotten them back then."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What do you want for dinner? I thought maybe I could make some stew."

"I hate stew. It's prison food. They were always serving stew in prison. The meat was fatty, and came in a sluggy grey-brown gravy. Road kill in a primeval swamp." House stopped.

He remembered the smell of the stew. A disgusting smell, mixed with all the other disgusting prison smells. Sweat. Metal. Stone. And the smell of being locked up. It was strange and he'd never have believed it before, but there really existed a smell of 'locked up'. It was a sickly sweet smell, not unlike that of a decaying body.

"Okay. Then what about a nice roast chicken. You like roast chicken." House knew Wilson could see that he was remembering bad stuff. Wilson had once told him that he could see in House's eyes what he was feeling. That thought was a bit frightening, but there was nothing House could do about it, so he simply chose to ignore it. Besides, the only person who was able to read him like that was Wilson. He knew he could trust Wilson.

"I could make it with red peppers or pies. Or we could have some french fries with it," Wilson babbled on.

House nodded. "Both. I want french fries _and_ red peppers."

"Okay. No problem." Wilson looked relieved. He started rummaging around the fridge and the freezer, getting all the stuff he needed to fix dinner. House thought it was almost pathetic, how he always made sure to have a variety of House's favourite foods in stock.

He watched Wilson's back while he was working and wished for the hundredth time that he wasn't such a burden to his friend. He wished he could simply drive Wilson away for a while, like he used to do in the old days. But he couldn't do that anymore. It wasn't just the physical help that he needed. That he could have gotten from Clarence or someone else he could hire. He needed Wilson. Wilson was his lifeline.

He didn't want to think about this too closely, though, so he limped back into the living room and turned the TV on. Wilson would call him when dinner was ready.

c-c-c-c-c

"Did you think about the surgery?" Wilson asked between bites of chicken.

House quickly stuffed a french fry into his mouth, so he didn't have to answer right away. He made sure to chew it extra carefully. He knew Wilson would eventually want an answer, but he really didn't want to talk about it right now.

He chanced a quick glance at the man opposite him, and Wilson's determined expression told him that this time, he wouldn't get away with it. House sighed.

"I don't know..." he said slowly.

"You know you need the surgery. It'll take some of the pain away."

"I know. It's just..."

"You don't have to do it at PPTH. You can go to Princeton General or even Atlantic City General if you're more comfortable there. It's a simple enough procedure. They have qualified personnel there too," Wilson tried to talk him into it.

House frowned. _If_ he did the surgery, he would certainly _not_ go to PPTH. People were staring enough at him already when he was out in the streets. He wouldn't give his old colleagues the chance to get glance at the old crippled bastard. And judging from Wilson's guarded tales of his work days, the gossip-mill was still running pretty well. They would have to be content with what they'd gotten on the news.

It wasn't the surgery itself that frightened House. It was the idea of being sedated for hours, with no control over his body, being at the mercy of someone he didn't know. But how could he tell Wilson that without sounding like a total wuss?

"If you want, I could assist during the surgery. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't mind if we explain the situation. I could make sure everything goes the way it should go."

House felt relief flooding through his body. Wilson understood his need for security without having to be told so. It was in moments like this that House wished he could tell Wilson about how glad he was to have him. Instead he just gave a small nod.

After a while he added. "Let's do it in Princeton General. Closer to home."

Wilson gave him one of his big smiles. "I'll make an appointment tomorrow."

c-c-c-c-c

House was lying on the gurney, being prepped for the surgery. He was feeling more and more anxious the closer he got to being sedated. He wished he hadn't agreed to do this. Sure, his foot and knee hurt when he walked, but he was used to the pain. He'd lived with it for years.

He turned his head. "Wilson."

"Shh, it's alright. I'm right here. I won't leave you. Everything's alright." Wilson stood next to his bed, tall and reassuring. He took House's hand in his. House calmed down a little.

"Wilson?" his voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Yes?"

"I wish... Can I have... Mr. Vicodin?" House felt stupid, but he really wanted his toy right now, even though they would probably take him away again before they started the surgery, because he wasn't sterile.

Wilson smiled. "Sure. I brought him down just in case. Look." He held up a clear, sealed plastic bag which contained Mr. Vicodin. "I put him in a sterile bag, so you can take him into surgery with you." Wilson explained, sounding slightly embarrassed himself.

Wilson put the toy under House's hand, the one that didn't have the IV-needle in it. A nurse approached them. "We're ready now."She pushed something into the IV tube and told House to count backwards from ten. He made it to seven before he passed out.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_After I had been released from prison everything was a blur. The trials, the hospital, the catatonia... Everything I remember is hazy and somehow out of focus. There is only one thing that is clear in my mind. One feature that remained consistent, while everything else changed. Wilson. _

_I remember opening my eyes at night and and seeing beside me in a chair or next to me in bed, Wilson. I remember opening my eyes during the day, and sitting next to me on the sofa or a wooden bench, I still see Wilson. If I felt hungry or thirsty the hand that would give me the plate or the glass was Wilson's. Whenever I looked around to see who was there for me when I needed help I looked into Wilson's face. _

_When I open my eyes now, I know I will see Wilson. Because Wilson is always there for me. Even when he wasn't there, during the dark years, he never left me. He came to me in my dreams. He took my in his arms when I needed someone to hold me. He talked me to sleep when I was too afraid to close my eyes. Dream Jimmy, I used to call him. _

_But now I have Wilson again. The real Wilson. And when I open my eyes he will be there. _

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

House slowly opened his eyes. He could hear someone moving around the room. He remembered the surgery and he knew he was probably still in the hospital. The linens felt crisp against his body. Hospital sheets. He didn't like them very much, but they weren't as bad as prison sheets or no sheets at all. At least they kept him warm.

"Wilson," House whispered even before his eyes were completely open. He looked around the room. A nurse was checking the IV bags. She smiled at him when she saw that he was awake. House ignored her and quickly scanned the rest of the room. No Wilson.

He did a double take just to make sure. No, Wilson definitely wasn't in the room. House could feel his pulse beating in his ears. Where was Wilson? The beeping of the heart monitor became more rapid. The nurse looked at him in alarm.

"Dr. House, are you feeling alright?"

House wanted to speak. He wanted to ask where Wilson was, but his mouth was so dry. His tongue seemed to weigh a ton. He could feel himself starting to sweat.

"Dr. House. You need to calm down. Everything is alright. You're in a hospital, remember? You're having a panic attack. Try to breathe with me. Slow and steady." She placed a hand on his arm.

House jerked his arm away. He scanned the room again. Where was Wilson?

"Wilson..." he managed to gasp.

The nurse seemed to understand. "Dr. Wilson has just gone to the restroom for a minute. He will be back soon."

House didn't believe her. What if Wilson had gone for good? What if he'd planned this? No. No, Wilson wouldn't leave him. At least not freely. So what had happened? Had _they_ come back? Had it all been a farce, another test? Had he finally failed? Had _they_ taken Wilson because he had broken the contract?

"Dr. House, listen to me," the nurse was still talking, some of her words reached through to House. "Dr. Wilson... told me to tell you... be right back... you woke up... left this here for you." She held something up.

House had trouble focusing on the thing in the nurses hand. _Concentrate!_ he told himself. Maybe this will tell you what happened. Maybe Wilson had managed to leave a clue. He looked at the thing. It was white. Oval shape. A big V. And... purple buttons... Mr. Vicodin.

House reached out for Mr. Vicodin. The nurse let him take the toy. House pressed him against his chest. He closed his eyes. Everything would be alright. Wilson had just gone to the restroom. He would be back in a minute. And until then he had Mr. Vicodin to keep him company. If _they_'d been here, they would have taken Mr. Vicodin away too. He was still safe.

The nurse watched the monitor as House's heart rate slowly went down to a more normal level. House could hear her mutter something under her breath. He didn't care.

The door to the room slid open and Wilson stepped in. House let out a small sigh of relief. Everything was alright.

c-c-c-c-c

"I hate crutches." House scowled as he slowly pushed himself out of the wheelchair.

Wilson smiled. "You could just stay in the chair until we're at the car."

"You wish." House grunted. He got his feet underneath himself and started to hobble towards the hospital doors. He'd come in on his own feet, he'd leave on his own feet. And he seriously wished he'd never see the place again, even though he knew he would. This was just the first of the corrective surgeries Wilson had planned for him. And he knew he wouldn't be able to put Wilson off for long, once he started nagging him about them again.

On their way home they didn't talk very much. House looked out of the window, watching the streets change. Houses, trees and people blurring into one another. Even after so many months it felt strange being a part of the world again.

c-c-c-c-c

House had been home from the hospital for three days, when there was a knock at the front door only a few minutes after Wilson had come home. House was lying on the sofa, covered with a blanket, holding Mr. Vicodin lightly in his lap. The TV was running. Wilson had just asked if he was hungry enough for dinner yet.

They looked at each other. "Are you expecting anyone?" House asked, his tone a little anxious.

Wilson shook his head. "Well, I better go and see who it is," he said after a few seconds.

House could hear Wilson talking to someone at the door. The voice sounded familiar, but House couldn't quite place it.

When Wilson came back into the living room he looked nervous, and maybe a little angry.

"Who was it?" House asked. Wilson's tension made him tense too.

"Uhm..." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "It's... It's Chase and Foreman. Apparently they have a case they can't figure out and want to ask for your opinion. They followed me home from work."

House stared at Wilson. "And you didn't realize you were being followed?"

"That's hardly our biggest problem right now, don't you think?" Wilson said quietly.

"Right."

"Do you want me to send them away? Because I will. You don't have to see them. It's their case, their problem."

House considered the option. He remembered his talk with Dr. Simpson. He'd told the shrink he'd like to do something useful with his life. Simpson had said that maybe one day he'd be able to work again. He knew that secretly Wilson and Cuddy were hoping the same too.

He just wasn't sure if he could. He'd read a few medical journals over the past months, mainly to keep himself occupied when there was nothing on TV. Sometimes he'd fantasized that one of his old colleagues would call him for help over an uncrackable case. And that he managed to solve it, just like he used to do.

Well, this was his chance. If he told Wilson to let them in and he did solve the case, maybe he would still be remembered as the great diagnostician, not the cripple-doctor-who-went-to-prison. If only it weren't Chase and Foreman.

House realized that he had been quiet for over a minute. He quickly glanced up at Wilson and then back down into his lap. His fingers played with Mr. Vicodin. Crooked fingers. Scarred hands.

Then he looked up again and said. "They can handle it."

"Foreman says the kid has maybe a day to live."

House sighed. He could tell, that even though Wilson was apprehensive he wanted him to talk to Chase and Foreman. Who knew what he hoped to gain from this.

House sighed again and pulled the blanket aside to hide Mr. Vicodin beneath it. "Fine. Let them in."

He turned the TV off.

**Epilogue**

Wilson and Cuddy finally worked up the nerve to offer House his old job as head of the diagnostics department at PPTH. At first House had flatly rejected the mere idea of going back to PPTH. But Wilson hadn't given up. Neither had Cuddy. In fact, she had gotten board approval for House's re-hiring even before officially offering him the job.

House had brooded over the whole situation for weeks and finally agreed to do the two months trial period. But he hadn't agreed to anything after that. Wilson hoped that two months would be enough to give House the encouragement he needed to stay for good.

Foreman and Chase were working for House again, but this time as attendings, not fellows. There was also a new member to the team, a young woman called Devi Rajghatta.

On the morning of his first day House sat on the sofa, fully dressed and ready to go when Wilson came in to get him. House was holding Mr. Vicodin and looking intently at he toy.

"You can take him with you, if you want," Wilson said, sitting down next to House.

"Yeah, right," House scoffed. "What a great impression. The insane cripple boss coming in to work with an oversized pill. Just what I need."

Wilson suppressed a grin. "You could put him in your backpack. No-one would know he's there."

But House shook his head. "No. He's going to stay here. I have to do this alone. Can't hide behind a toy for the rest of my life."

"Okay."

"Besides, I always have you to duck behind, if someone throws me the evil eye." House smirked, trying to play down the seriousness of the conversation.

Wilson played along. "Sure. Plus I'm better at paying for lunch. I have arms and hands. _And_ a wallet."

At this House actually snickered. "Hear that Mr. V? He's jealous of our relationship. But don't worry, I'll be back tonight and I'll tell you all the mean things he said to me during the day. And then we'll make fun of his ties..."

THE END!!

A/N: If you haven't had enough yet, check out that fantastic story called 'Exigencies' by Priority. It basically starts where I stopped.

Plus: There are some DVD EXTRAS if you go on to the next chapter. :-)


	6. Chapter 6

**Deleted scenes**

**A/N: ****these are scenes I had written down, but which for various reasons didn't fit in the final story. **

**There might be some minor problems with the lighting (grammar) and the sound (spelling), because they have not been digitally remastered (beta-ed). **

**If, while reading them, you spot a plotbunny lurking in a dark alleyway or behind the next lamp-post, feel free to snatch it up and nurture it to adulthood. I'd just appreciate it, if you'd mention where you found it and drop me a line, so I can follow your story. :-) **

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Pain.

House didn't know how long he had been here. He didn't know were 'here' was or how he had got there. He was lying on a bed. To begin with there had been cuffs around his wrists and ankles, but now they were gone. He was too weak to move. If he had been able to examine himself he would have seen that he was dressed in a hospital gown. Not that he remembered being taken to a hospital.

All he knew about was the pain.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They had found a new way to torture me. I hadn't eaten for days and they had barely brought me enough water to keep me alive. Nor had I slept. Everytime my eyes closed, they would bombard the room with a barrage of sounds, drum beats, music, machine gun fire. The lights were kept on all the time. Right now it could have been the middle of the day or the night. It made no difference.

The sounds were hammering through my head. All I wanted was silence. I used to hate the silence of solitary, but now I couldn't stop thinking about it. What wouldn't I give for another day of this silence. Or even five minutes. Just one minute of peace.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The guard – Fat Boy - punches me again. I barely have time to see the fist swing in an arch towards me before it makes contact with my stomach, throwing me off my feet. If I'd eaten anything in the last twelve hours I'd have thrown up. I feel the the breath explode out of me as I crash onto the floor. Darkness is shimmering in front of my eyes, but it isn't closing in yet. I have to fight for each breath. The concrete feels cold against my cheek.

"Say it again, cripple."

I try to catch my breath, try to form the words that I used to avoid like the plague before. No I seem to say nothing else.

"I'm sorry."

Fat Boy swings his foot almost lazily and I can't help but yell out as it comes into contact with my ribs. A new wave of pain is searing through my body. One of the others reaches down and grabs my hair. He tugs so hard that I can feel tears forming in my eyes.

"What are you?" he grunts.

I know the answer to that question too. "Nothing. I'm no-one."

"Too right you are."

He lets go of my hair and I lay there sprawled out on the floor. Let it be over now, please.

He drops down next to me and turns my face towards him. "You are nothing."

Then he gets up again. One of them must have given a signal, because they scoop me up and drag me into the corner. I don't even try to resist. I can feel my feet, toes downwards, sliding along behind me. My vision is blurred, or maybe it's just getting darker. They dump me in the corner and leave me lying there, after giving me another couple of kicks just for the fun of it.

Just before they leave, the one whose name I don't know bends down again and says in a whisper of sheer hatred. "Thompson sends his regards."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**A/N: To be honest, the following scene was never meant to be in the story. It's just that BSEVER made a comment about 'John House to please not be taking House back' and that idea simply didn't leave me alone. I wrote this short scene to get rid of it. And it worked. :-)**

"I think it's best if I take care of Greg from now on." John House said in a tone that was basically an order.

"No Way!" Wilson said angrily. "He lives with me. He's comfortable here, he has everything he needs and there are doctors here who know his medical history."

"He will have everything he needs with me." John House said simply.

Wilson wanted to shout 'I'm pretty sure he won't!' but instead he said "I don't think it is a good idea to rip him out of an environment he's used to. He needs stability. He needs to feel safe, so he can heal and maybe one day come back."

"What he needs is a strong hand. I know Greg. I know best what he needs." John had raised his voice.

This time Wilson did shout exactly what was in his mind. He was tired of treading carefully around this bully of a man. This was about House and if House needed someone to fight for him, then Wilson would gladly be the one.

"I think you have no idea what he needs. From all I know, you had no idea what he needed when he was a kid."

"What the hell are you talking about?! Are you accusing me of abusing my son? How dare you!"

"He is _not_ going with you. I will make sure of that!"

Johns face was red, his eyes bulging with anger. „We'll see about that Mr. Smary-Pants. He's my son and any court will give me -"

"If you try to bring this before a court, I'll make sure to tell them about the ice-baths and the sleeping in the yard. I'll tell them about the special dinners. We'll see who wins then!"

John House stared at Wilson for a whole minute. His breathing was laboured. Then he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. Wilson never heard of him again.


End file.
